


The Path

by paracosim



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bullying, Characters will be added as they appear - Freeform, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), childhood friendships, the "Les Choristes" AU no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-10-21 10:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17640830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paracosim/pseuds/paracosim
Summary: 1973.Rumors of a war are on the rise, tensions flare between Houses, and the year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor takes a troubled boy with a hidden talent under his wing. But in doing so, he finds himself embroiled in a series of events that may change the course of history forever.





	1. That Snape Boy

All the faculty knew that Snape boy was no good.

From the day he’d arrived, the child had been nothing but trouble. Missing schoolwork and absences, constant visits to the Hospital Wing with no excuse available for his injuries—some of the staff suspected he was a bully, though they’d never managed to catch him in the act. Rumor was he’d singled James Potter out from the moment he’d stepped on the train, before they’d even learned each other’s names. No doubt it was due to Snape’s upbringing. The boy was rash and volatile—quick with his wand and quicker with his mouth. He had a vocabulary so filthy it was a wonder his mother hadn’t taken the time to clean it with a healthy dollop of soap.

Professor Slughorn could attest that Snape didn’t get along with his housemates. He’d had to break up fights between them on more than one occasion. And, always, Severus Snape would be in the middle, nose bloody and mouth as shut as always when confronted by one of his professors.

Tensions were high as it was. With talk of a stirring war, an army of troops gathering under the Ministry’s eye, and House rivalries as active as ever, one troubled boy among many only added to their duties. There were rumors that the children were being recruited to fight in an adult’s war. The faculty had their hands full in rounding up the lot of them.

There were only rumors really, nothing more. But in the end, it was clear that everyone agreed: that Snape boy was on a path that led to nowhere good.

 

the path

 

It was early enough in the year that when the cold snap hit, the castle was taken entirely by surprise. Dreary shadows lengthened the corridors, darkening the enchanted sky of the Great Hall, and the front lawn had developed a healthy coating of frost. Rain fell in fits and starts; icicles had formed half-heartedly on many of the windows, sticking the hinges and frosting the panes, only to drip to nothingness when the clouds gave way to a rare flash of sun. When the students ventured outside to the Greenhouses, they did so in thick coats and wrappings, mittened hands stuck deep in their pockets. From the library, Severus could see them in the distance, huddled together like rosy-cheeked penguins in the autumn chill.

He and Lily had squirreled themselves away in their favorite spot of the library: a corner nook next to a little stained glass window depicting Rowena Ravenclaw. When the sun shone, it sent spatters of blues and reds across their table, lighting Lily’s hair like it had taken flame. She’d never noticed it, but he had, and it drew his eye every time he looked her way. Today, the pale light seeping in leeched her of all color, like a faded photograph.

Massaging feeling back into his numb fingers, Severus leaned back in his chair and stared at the skylights in the ceiling. The remains of their lunch lay scattered across the table. They’d arranged piles of books to hide the sandwich crusts and apple cores from Pince’s sharp gaze.

It had been just past noon when they’d crept inside to take their place among the shelves, and Severus knew they didn’t have much time before they would need to make their way to the dungeons for Potions. He pushed himself close to the table and lifted his hand, rotating his wrist slowly. “Twist and flick,” he muttered, staring intently at the page in front of him. “Twist and flick.”

“You’ve been at it for twenty minutes,” Lily said, scribbling away with her head bent close to her Charms work. “Why not try  _ doing _ the spell instead of scowling at it?”

Severus didn’t respond beyond wrenching his lips out of their scowl to press them together, miming the motions again.  _ Twist and flick. _ “You know I’m no good at Transfiguration,” he muttered eventually. He shoved the book away again and leaned back in his chair. “I want to get it right tomorrow.”

“No good? Sev, I’ve never seen you get anything past ten marks off. You’re above Pettigrew, at any rate.”

“That’s not a compliment.  _ Anyone’s _ better than that lump.”

“Either way, you’re not bad. And no one gets it right on the first try,” Lily said, “except—”

“Potter,” he finished. “I know.”

And he did. Everyone knew James Potter was excellent at Transfiguration—that McGonagall thought he was a prodigy of sorts.  _ All _ the professors thought Potter was a genius. Good— _ great _ —at Quidditch, a decent hand at Potions, and he wasn’t bad at DaDa. But Transfiguration was where he truly stood out. Severus hated him for it.  _ He _ was good at Potions, better than all the others barring Lily, but Slughorn had never called  _ him _ a prodigy. In fact, sometimes he wondered whether Slughorn had ever bothered to learn his  _ name. _

But Slughorn’s penchant for preferential treatment was better than the way Madame Pomfrey looked at him when he showed up to the Hospital Wing for the third time in a week, lip split, hex marks singed into his robes. He’d have to be blind not to notice the expression on McGonagall’s face when a piece of homework went missing from his bag overnight, or the way Flitwick sighed when he showed up late for class with bloody knees and a bruised face. And unlike Slughorn, they asked questions.  _ Who _ had he been fighting?  _ Why? _ Who had  _ started _ it?

But Severus never told. He knew it would only make things worse. Potter and his gang had ways of finding him—he knew they did. They were always up to something. Maybe they’d stuck a Tracking Spell on him, or bugged one of his books—something to make them always know where he was. When he was alone and defenseless. Sometimes he thought they must be following him, and when a careful scan of the corridor revealed it to be empty, Severus would think he he was going barmy.

He’d catch them one day. And then he’d make them pay. Then they’d see—everyone would see—that he wasn’t to be messed with. He’d find out what they were doing. After that, he’d…he’d hex them, maybe, until their faces were purple and their toenails had grown so long they broke through the walls of the castle. And then he’d get them expelled.

“Sev, you’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up,” said Lily, breaking through his daydream.

Coming back to himself with a jolt, he lurched to his feet and gathered his books. “Right, sorry,” he said hurriedly, shoving everything into his bag before stepping away from the table. “Let’s go.”

At least, this way, they’d get there too late for Potter or Black to try anything. They’d have to be mad to curse him right in front of a professor, even if it was only Slughorn.

The corridor outside was drafty, and they pulled their robes tightly round themselves as they walked. Severus’s fingers still felt numb. He’d need to hold them by his cauldron flame before he started working, or his ingredients would be chopped unevenly and his potion would suffer. Maybe there was a spell for warming your hands…

“Did you finish your Charms work?” he asked when the silence dragged a bit too long.

“Not yet,” she sighed, breath fogging. She’d twisted her hair up into some sort of bun today, and Severus marveled at the sight of it. Up until their third year, she’d never done anything particularly interesting with her hair. He knew her parents hadn’t let Tuney touch a single powder puff until she’d turned thirteen. Lily had never seemed interested in any of it, but today was different. She had two black lines over her eyes, shaky at the tips, and some sort of coloring on her lips that had faded more and more with every bite of her sandwich. He thought it must have been red at first.

When he realized he’d been staring, Severus turned his gaze to the floor, hoping his cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. He cleared his throat and tried to pitch his voice deeper. “How many inches do you have left to do?”

“God, stop talking about homework.” Lily groaned and wound their arms together, pressing close. An older Ravenclaw boy eyed them strangely from the end of the corridor. Severus glared at him until they’d passed. “You’re going to make me sick up that apple if I have to think about that essay for one more second.”

“You know it’ll be perfect,” he said, fighting back a grin. “Your essays always are.”

“No, they aren’t. You’re just trying to butter me up.”

“Am not.”

“You are!”

“If I beat you to Potions, you have to let me talk about homework whenever I want.” He untangled his arm from hers and jogged forward a little, glancing back to smile at her sour expression. “Come o—”

“If I win,” Lily called as she darted round the corner, voice carrying through the hall, “you can’t talk about it for an entire  _ week! _ ”

_ You’re on, _ he thought, racing after her even though his bag pummeled his side with every step. He chased her down the endless corridors and past the Great Hall, down the winding dungeon stairs, and finally to their Potions classroom, where the rest of their class stood waiting for Slughorn.

Severus slowed to a stop beside a gasping Lily and tugged his bag’s strap back up his shoulder. When their eyes met, he was pleased to find her beaming.

“I win,” she said breathlessly, reaching to flick his hair out of his face. “No homework talk for a week.”

“A week,” he agreed, and knew he’d give up the rest of his school years for her, if it meant she’d smile again.

In that moment, Severus knew he would do anything for Lily Evans.

 

—

 

Sometimes, late at night when no one was awake but him, and the dorm was soundless but for Wilkes’s snores, Severus couldn’t help but feel there was no hope for him in the world.

He didn’t have a definite answer for when he’d begun thinking that way. It had grown in him over time, latching its roots deep in his mind, until one day he woke up wondering how sharp Mum kept her kitchen knives, and how long it would take for him to bleed out before she found him. Would anyone remember him? Would they be able to recall his face and name? How long would it be before Lily forgot all about him? Had she already begun to?

“Stop being dramatic,” his mother had said, flatly as ever, when he’d worked up the courage to tell her his thoughts. “Set the table.”

And that had been that.

“Would you stuff a cork in it, already? Rosier groaned from the next bed over, cutting through the silence. Severus startled badly and swiped at his cheeks, rubbing away stray tears, and buried his nose in the crook of his elbow to muffle a sniff.

“S’wrong, Evan?” Avery whispered.

“Snape’s sniveling in his bed again.” Someone’s drapes fluttered open and Severus tensed at the sound of footsteps, wondering wildly if Rosier meant to take a swing at him, before slumping back against his pillows when he stopped at the bed to the right of his. “What, did your little blood traitor boyfriend call you names? Which one was it this time? Black or Potter?”

_ He’s not my fucking boyfriend, _ Severus wanted to shout, but he knew it would break the uneasy truce between them. Rosier would be taking the piss out on him for days if he responded. So, instead, he sniffled again.

Potter and Black had caught him after dinner, as usual, when Lily had already said her goodbye’s and he’d been left to walk alone back to his common room.

It never ended. Once a day, twice, five times—however many they wanted, they’d find him, and it would never end. Not until he left this place for good. Packed up and left them all behind forever.

If he could only get them  _ expelled… _

“Look,” Avery said, with a grin in his voice, “I know people say the tears of Mudbloods is like a lullaby, but I personally find it grating. My mother always said if you don’t get enough sleep, you’ll get spots, and you wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for the maiming of my skin, would you, Snape?”

Severus passed the pads of his fingers over his own spots, then lowered his hand. Da had told him picking would only make them worse. It was best to let them run their course. Mum had scoffed at that, said there were potions to fix his woes.

“Better than your Muggle remedies,” she’d said, prompting Tobias to whirl at her caustic tone, and Severus to run out the door before the argument could become explosive.

“Sorry,” he said when the silence had dragged too long. His voice sounded too reedy in his ears, thick with mucus and tears. He’d tried to deny it all, once, but his voice gave him away every time. It was best to let things run their course, Da said. “It won’t happen again.”

Wilkes snored across the room. Rosier and Avery whispered to each other, mutterings punctuated by sniggers. Mulciber threw his pillow but made no move to shush them. Severus laid down, thought of grey fog and of distancing himself from his body, and stared at his canopy, empty and sleepless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everybody, I'm here to add to my workload by putting yet another multi-chapter fanfic on my to-do list. This one is the "Les Choristes" AU no one has ever asked for, which is a shame, because here I am writing it. It's likely not going to be updated extremely often since this is now my fifth novel-length WiP and I'm dying. This features a thirteen-year-old Severus with an (actually pretty much canon) excellent singing voice, and the origin of the choir seen in the first movie.
> 
> "Les Choristes" is a beautiful French movie about a failed musician named Clément Mathieu who becomes the prefect at a boarding school for troubled and criminal boys. He's ready to give up hope when he discovers the worst of the lot, Pierre Morhange, has the voice of an angel and that the children aren't beyond hope. So he does what any self-respecting musician does and turned them all into his personal choir, changing their lives forever. Many versions of the film have English subtitles and I highly recommend watching it.


	2. Chapter 2

Clément Mathieu had never envisioned himself a teacher, let alone a professor at one of the most prestigious magic schools on the continent, but he’d long since learned that hitting rock bottom had a tendency to open new paths in life.

It was a letter that had begun it all. Though he’d given up composing years ago and vowed never to return to it, Clément still found himself running in the old circles from time to time. Cutting ties with his craft had never seemed to apply to the crowd he’d belong to. Musicians he’d once known would write to him; he would stumble upon a fellow composer at an orchestral concert in Paris; or perhaps, sometimes when he had had more than a little too much to drink, he would write  _ them _ and lament on what would never be again.

Filius Flitwick wasn’t someone he had ever considered close, but he had been a friend of a friend, and a talented conductor with a keen ear for pitch. Clément had never expected the letter that appeared in the post that fateful morning—nor the invitation for him to apply as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. Apparently, the post was empty for the year—and Clément had been meaning to brush up on his English anyway.

Still, he hadn’t given the letter much thought at first. It had languished in the bottom drawer of his desk for three nights before he decided it couldn’t hurt to try, and Apparated for the first time in years to Diagon Alley, where he secured himself an owl and some parchment.

What Clément had truly not expected was the prompt reply that found its way onto his bed the very next morning, delivered to him by a brown barn owl with haunting yellow eyes. An omen, to be sure. But whether it was bad or good—well, who could say?

Then the nerves set in. 

_ Qu’ai j’écrit? _ was all he could think as he sat in front of Albus Dumbledore the following evening, sweating in the best suit he’d had on hand.  _ What had I put in that letter, for Filius to make him believe I needed this? Why did I come? _

The interview had gone surprisingly well, and the conversation that had followed after even more so. He and Dumbledore had discussed, late into the evening, his decades living in the Muggle world after graduating from Beauxbatons, his reasons for leaving a life of magic in the first place, and how he had met Filius Flitwick so long ago.

He hadn’t been prepared for a job offer that same night. And the advice given to him by his new colleagues during the weeks leading up to his first ever term was every bit as surprising as everything else.

_ “Job’s cursed, so write up your will when you have the chance.” _

_ “Keep an eye out for Potter and Black—Gryffindors, I’m sure you know the type. They mean well but they can go too far. Boys at that age…” _

_ “Mind the staircase leading to the Seventh Floor—two trick stairs on that one.” _

_ “Landy is the best elf to call when you need a midnight cocoa. She always includes a hint of peppermint and it’s positively gorgeous.” _

_ “Slughorn is good for favors, but you’ll have to ply him with crystallized pineapple if you want him to put effort in.” _

But out of everything he’d been told, Clément had noticed a running, ominous theme:  _ Pay close attention to Severus Snape. _

 

—

 

They caught him on the stairs as he was heading to dinner.

The first hex missed, soaring wide overhead, and in an instant Severus whipped out his wand and ducked to throw his bag back down to the dungeons, in an attempt to protect his books and essays. He could retrieve it once this was over. Crouching low to avoid the next barrage of spells, he took one step, and then another, until he could just barely make out his attacker’s faces from the top of the stairs.

Pettigrew went down first. “ _ Locomotor wibbly, _ ” Severus spat, throwing a Jelly-Legs jinx his way. He didn’t stay surfaced long enough to see Pettigrew fall, dropping back to his haunches to narrowly avoid a spark of blue.  _ Tarantallegra _ —Dancing Feet.

“Come out, Snivelly,” Black called, laughter clear in his voice.

“Snivellus Snape,” Potter chimed in gleefully, as Black let out a whoop. “Say, Sirius, doesn’t old Snivellus know there are advantages—”

It wasn’t a spell this time, but a book that came sailing out of nowhere—

“—to having the higher ground?”

The book caught him in a glancing blow across the face, bashing his nose and sending him clattering down the dungeon stairs. He seized the banister and bent beneath another hex, snorting blood from the back of his throat so that he could cough out another spell in the direction the book had come from. It seemed at first to disintegrate in midair, but then James Potter emerged from nothing with a fat lip and a thunderous expression.

“You’ll pay for that,” he said with difficulty, but Severus had already sent a Stunner his way.

It met its mark, though not the one it had been intended for; this time it was Black who dropped to the floor, appearing as nothing but legs on the floor.

Potter raised his wand again.

“ _ What is the meaning of this? _ ”

In an instant, the chaos in the corridor snapped to a halt as McGonagall swept towards them, wand out and face blanched white in fury. Her lips were pursed so tightly they were almost invisible and her eyes were blazing brightly enough to catch flame. As she stopped before the scene, Severus picked himself up and tucked his wand up his sleeve, where he gripped it tightly in preparation. You never could be too careful. “I am  _ deeply _ disappointed in you all. Rioting like baboons in the halls! What is the  _ meaning _ of this?”

“It was Snape,” Potter was quick to say round his fat lip, pointing. He was helping Black to his unsteady feet and undoing the Jelly Legs Jinx on Pettigrew, who scuttled round him to cower behind them both. “We were just standing here, Professor, and he attacked us! He was using Dark magic to—”

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. And you, Mr. Snape,” McGonagall said severely, “what do you have to say on the matter?”

“You don’t fucking care anyway,” he said under his breath, glaring at his shoes. He sniffled and swallowed blood.

“Mr. Snape?” McGonagall repeated. He could hear the frustration in her voice. “Do you have anything to say, or should we take this to the Headmaster’s office where he has a chance to ask you, instead?”

Severus’s nails dug so sharply into his palms they punctured skin. “I don’t care,” he repeated, louder this time.

“Would you like to try again, Mr.—”

“I said,” he snarled, “I  _ don’t care. _ Send me to Dumbledore. Send me to the forest, or to Filch. I don’t give a  _ damn— _ ”

In a ringing voice, McGonagall said, “ _ Detention! _ And ten points from Slytherin, at that.”

_ Take as much as you want, _ Severus thought, shaking so hard he thought he might fly apart.  _ Take everything. Take it all. I don’t—fucking—care. _

“And for you three—ten points from Gryffindor for rioting in the corridors! I have  _ never _ seen behavior like this in all my years at Hogwarts. It is an utter  _ disgrace. _ ”

Black and Potter had the good grace to look chastised, but it didn’t last any longer than the few seconds McGonagall was looking their way; and the moment she turned back to him, the two erupted into silent laughter. Severus seethed at the sight of them and forced his gaze to the floor. He clenched his wand so tightly he could feel the wood creak.

Finally, McGonagall seemed to give up. “To the Great Hall, all of you,” she sighed. “Run along.”

Dismissed, Severus turned and stormed down the stairs to the dungeons, knocking a first-year Slytherin in the shoulder as he went.

“Mr. Snape,” McGonagall called after him.

“I’m not hungry,” he snapped, bending to grab his bag and vanishing into the gloom.

 

—

 

He missed breakfast the next day, because he’d woken to find one eye blackened and his nose bruised, and Lily would have had too many questions for him had he come to meet her there.

The morning was spent instead in peace and review in the safety of his empty dorm. Truly alone for the first time in days, Severus managed to finish his Potions essay, get a headstart on Transfiguration, and outline for Charms before he was in danger of being late for Herbology. He gathered his books in a rush and made it to the Greenhouses in time to join the Ravenclaws, who studiously ignored him, and his fellow Slytherins, who were no better.

Avery wasted no time in sidling up to him and murmuring, “You finish your Charms yet?”

“No,” Severus said flatly, digging a cigarette out of his robes and lighting up with a snap of his fingers. Sprout was always five minutes late on Wednesdays, giving him ample time to smoke. Avery followed him as he ducked round the side of Greenhouse Two. “What do you want?”

“What about Divs?”

“You know I don’t take that,” Severus said on an exhale. “I’m in Arithmancy.”

“Right.” Avery didn’t express disappointment, because Pureblood boys were better than that, but he did look—displeased. Vexed. “That’s right.”

Although Avery hadn’t said anything outright, Severus knew without having to ask that he was treading dangerous waters. He breathed out a cloud of smoke and forced himself to say, “You can use my Charms outline. I’ll just make another. It has key points you need to use in the essay.”

Surely it wasn’t wrong to go along with it. If he didn’t, there would be trouble; and who could fault him for helping the others cheat when there could be more consequences for letting them fail than there would be for assisting them? At worst, Dumbledore would send a letter home—a letter that would never reach its recipient, because his da would chase it off before it could get to Mum—but Avery and Rosier could do worse. They could do much, much worse.

The facts were simple. It wasn’t cheating: it was self-preservation.

“If you do my Divinations,” Avery said suddenly, “I’ll throw you a few Knuts. Merlin knows you need them, with shoes like that.”

An image of his own fingers gouging into Avery’s eyes came into Severus’s mind, so vivid his heart palpitated and his stomach clenched in something like panic or revulsion, and then Sprout came round the bend and announced, “All right, everyone in!”

He stamped out his cigarette before she could spot it and followed the rest of the class into the greenhouse, staring straight ahead so that he wouldn’t have to look at Avery. But he knew it wouldn’t matter; because even if he ignored him now, Severus knew as well as the rest that he would, in fact, do Avery’s Divinations work. And Rosier’s. Wilkes’s. He would do it all for the payment of a few Knuts or perhaps even a Galleon, because Severus knew better than to fight back—and because Avery was right. Everybody knew Severus needed the money. His robes were secondhand and he’d stolen his shoes from Da, who wasn’t likely to miss them for another month, and most of his Muggle clothes were from his mum’s wardrobe, all faded blouses and worn jumpers. His too-long trousers were from his da. His books were torn and ratty, his gloves had holes in the pinkies, and his coat had seen much better days; or, rather, decades.

Everyone in Slytherin House knew Severus Snape needed money, and that he would do near anything to get it.

Sprout’s gaze lingered on him as he took his place beside Wilkes, but she didn’t say a word. None of the professors had ordered him to the Hospital Wing since first year, and Severus had never gone anyway. They were all content to view his wounds and judge him, never to ask where they came from or who had caused them. Severus had never once harmed himself to find out whether they would speak up about  _ that, _ but it was almost  _ too  _ tempting, some days.

But he resisted the urges and the damning late-night thoughts, avoided Potter and his gang the best he could, and went on with life.

At this point, it was all he could really hope for.

“Now,” Professor Sprout said cheerily, clapping her dirt-crusted hands together, “today we’ll be studying Puffapods!”

 

—

 

“Mr. Snape, a word,” McGonagall said during his afternoon lesson, stopping Severus in his rush to join the living wall pushing out the door to spill into the corridor. With one last look at the others, he stepped back and waited until the room was empty and quiet.

“Yes, Professor?” he said at last, in what he hoped wasn’t a Fuck You voice.

By the expression on her face, he’d succeeded, but only just barely. “We need to discuss tonight,” she said, quieter now that the others were gone. “I unfortunately have other duties to attend to, so you’ll be taking your detention with Professor Mathieu.”

“Professor Mathieu?” he repeated, blindsided.  _ But why? _

Professor Clément Mathieu, from what Severus had so far gathered of the man, was a man with a fondness for sweater vests and a tendency to read from notes during his lessons in order to keep his footing—not that that was easy, either, thanks to a as well-placed jinx by Rosier on their first day. Mathieu had an accent a mile long and a bald spot even longer; and overall, there was nothing interesting to say about him beyond the fact that he was probably going to die by the end of the year. Severus knew nothing about him. No personality quirks, not how he behaved when angry, none of his hobbies. Mathieu was a blank slate. And blank slates were dangerous things.

“I can take Filch,” Severus said when he realized he’d been quiet for far too long, and McGonagall was clearly becoming more impatient by the second. “I—I wouldn’t mind—”

“Nonsense,” she said briskly, handing him a note that read the place and time of his impending detention. “Professor Mathieu has agreed to oversee you for a night, taking time out of his day to ensure you’re monitored.”

_ Monitored. _ Like he’d attack someone if they weren’t watching his every move. A surge of helpless fury stole his voice and Severus had to hide his clenched fists as he glared at the floor and nodded.

McGonagall looked at him and sighed. “Do behave tonight, Mr. Snape,” she said, and this time her voice was soft. “And wear something you won’t mind dirtying.”

There was not a single piece of clothing he had that wasn’t a secondhand article or something he’d ripped off a local store back in Spinner’s End, but McGonagall didn’t need to know that. “Yes, ma’am,” he said to his shoes. Because, in the end, what else was there to say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m about to update The Pauper Prince, too, and maybe Dog Days so I’m like on a fucking roll here. I have around 2,500 words of TPP ch 4 done and I just need to bridge a few scenes together because I write out of order. Excited. And I have another 1k of this written that’s almost ready to go so yay stuff is getting done!


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